Gold Lion
by uleanblue
Summary: It is a mark of bonding, a mystical joining of souls that can occur, apparently, under specific parameters... My take on the Soul Mate trope. Tomione/ Volmione.


**This is my take on the Soul Mate trope.**

 **I would like to dedicate this to Provocative Envy.**

 **Gold Lion**

 _Gold lion's gonna tell me where the light is,_

 _Gold lion's gonna tell me where the light is,_

It is strange.

He doesn't remember holding a revel last night.

If he didn't know better, he would think he'd think he'd gone on some completely uncharacteristic, massive bender, given the ridiculous hangover he is apparently sporting. His head is screaming at him, and when he dares to crack an eye, the room spins and tilts in nauseating circles before he snaps it tightly shut again. .

And really, whose brilliant idea was it to lay carpet on his tongue?

The very next thing Voldemort's barely conscious brain becomes aware of is the rather substantial hard on pressed between his abdomen and the cool silk of his sheets as he lays sprawled on his stomach.

He takes a moment to drowsily savor the tingly, almost aching discomfort of it, as the sensation is one he has not had the opportunity to experience since he regained corporeal form in his new, serpentine body.

Not surprising though, given the absolute dearth of suitable females in his ranks.

Well, any females, really.

And Bella, wretched harpy that she is, could wither even the most ardent, persistent boner with her crooked, mossy toothed leer and piercing cackle.

As his brain creeps steadily toward awareness, his left shoulder suddenly flares into painful, prickling life.

Actually, it feels like it's on fucking _fire_.

He groans then, rolling onto his back, then he reaches up to scratch his scalp. His hands as well as his brain come to a grinding halt when his fingers hit hair instead of smooth skin.

Lurching upright into a sitting position he thrusts his hands out in front of him and stares, now fully awake. His skin is no longer ghostly pale with translucent, almost spidery fingers that taper to milky white, talon like nails. His hands are still slender, still elegant-only now with rounded, normal fingertips, a smattering of fine, dark hair across his knuckles, his coloring a robust, healthy pink.

He yanks the sheet away, gazing at slim hips that give way to legs that are muscular - long and well proportioned instead of skeletal. His cock still juts out at attention, and in amazed wonder he runs his fingers along the line of dark wiry hair that trails down his lean, muscled abdomen, and along its length, shuddering as his fingers glide experimentally across the drops of clear fluid leaking from its tip.

He has pubic hair.

It occurs to him then that he might be dreaming, that perhaps there is yet a deep, long suppressed portion of his subconscious that yearns to be restored to his former youthful vigor, and has for some perverse, unfathomable reason created just such an illusion. Because as powerful and as death defying as he has proven himself to be, the body that emerged from the cauldron - forged of blood and ritual and the darkest magics imaginable - has distinct... _limitations_.

Wordlessly, he summons a mirror.

The face that stares back at him - perfect, handsome, in its unmarked physical prime- is one he has not seen or possessed for _decades._

It is astounding, and for a moment he can't help grinning at his reflection, though he cannot entirely quiet the faint sense of alarm ringing in the back of his mind.

Another burst of sharp, burning pain darts through his shoulder. Annoyed at having his perusal of whatever curious happenstance has brought about the revival of his eighteen year old physique, he glances down.

And freezes.

A gigantic rampant lion covers his entire shoulder, varying shades of crimson and tawny ink threaded through with a metallic gold that shimmers as if lit from within, and the surface of his skin prickles as it rears its head back and shakes its mane at him. It only takes a fraction of a second for his brain to finally click forward and process the horrifying implications of what he is seeing.

Of what has actually happened to him.

 _No._

This should not be possible. Especially with a soul as fractured and compartmentalized as his.

His horcruxes! Through some unfathomable quirk of fate, the tools through which he has tethered himself to this earthly plane have been neutralized.

For the first time since he was sixteen years old, he is _whole._

He is vulnerable.

 _Fuck..._ doesn't begin to cover the magnitude of this catastrophe.

Instinctively he bares his teeth and _hisses_ at the tattoo, a protracted stream of angry, sibilant curses, and the lion retaliates by slashing its raised claws across his skin, sending searing darts of pain across his chest. Without thinking, he clamps his hand harshly against his shoulder, as if he could actually subdue the unwelcome beast. Abruptly, images as vivid and all encompassing as a dreamscape flood, unbidden, into his mind.

He is someplace faraway, _hidden_ , isolated- yet possessed of a stark, desolate beauty. A monolithic outcropping of rock gives way to scattered clusters of wild, thorny bushes that slope down toward a vast expanse of evergreens.

A forest.

Just like that, he can feel _her_ , whoever she is, terrified, resolute, aware.

Her surroundings speak of deprivation, of hovering on the margins of survival, but they are well protected within the tightly woven confines of the powerful wards she erected. Clearly, she is resourceful and intelligent. A flicker of appreciation passes through him, and he would take a moment to be impressed with the intricacy of her spellwork if he weren't so determined to wring as much information from the tenuous connection as possible.

She is not...alone.

 _Hiding._

He closes his eyes and sharpens his focus on her. She is vaguely familiar - he knows he has seen her before, somewhere. Ah, yes. The Ministry.

All...that... _hair_.

Yes, he is close, the answer dangles just outside his reach.

He feels an abrupt shift as she too comes to recognize what has occurred.

She senses his presence, then, and he can almost taste the delicious, salty tang of utter panic that clings to her entire being like perspiration.

 _Hidden, hiding, hiding-_

With a shock of recognition, it comes to him.

 _Potter's mudblood._

His cold, cruel laughter echoes through his chamber.

* * *

 _Take our hands out of control_

 _Take our hands out of control_

Hermione's first thought upon achieving some semblance of consciousness is that this whole business of roughing it is _bullshit_.

It's bad enough that the tent is bloody _freezing_ , that there's never enough food to assuage the persistent, gnawing hunger she feels, and that her eyes are constantly bleary and irritated from hours of squinting at the cramped, miniscule print of musty old books by the inadequate light of their camp lanterns, but now-

Everything bloody hurts.

The nightmares are nothing new, after all she sleeps - or tries to - wearing a sliver of the dark, twisted soul of a psychopath around her neck. But she doesn't recall the aftereffects of a nightmare including the sensation of being run over by a lorry.

As she lays in her cot, wondering why her limbs feel so leaden and achy, a strangely uncomfortable tickling sensation, like fingernails being very lightly dragged over skin, runs across the left side of her torso. Still half asleep, Hermione absently pats her hand against her side, thinking that perhaps some small creature has sought warmth and shelter in the cot with her.

There is nothing there.

She then feels it again, rippling and sliding over her flesh, only this time something flicks softly against the underside of her breast. Bolting upright, she rips away the covers and leaps to her feet, wand coming instantly into her hand, her heart pounding. The locket bounces against her chest as she lifts the blankets and scans the bed, then casts a quick _lumos_ and looks underneath the cot. Nothing.

When her skin _crawls_ , prickling and unpleasant, a third time, she freezes for a full second before grasping the hem of her jumper with trembling fingers and pulling it up.

It is not a Dark Mark.

It is _worse_.

A great tattooed serpent lies gracefully coiled across her ribcage, its long, elegant tail trailing down onto the curve of her hip. Intricately detailed, its scales and features are delineated in vivid shades of green, black and a shimmering silver that practically glows in the dim light of her room. The detached, clinical part of her brain can appreciate the sheer aesthetic beauty of it- for it is truly a magnificent rendering that reminds her of rare, illuminated medieval texts depicting fantastical beasts.

What causes her heart to stutter and lurch in her chest isn't that she now has a living piece of art magically - _permanently_ \- etched into her flesh.

The significance of what is happening is not lost on her - Hermione has come across references to such things in more than one of the obscure dark tomes she has been forced to study as part of her search for information on horcruxes.

It is a mark of bonding, a mystical joining of souls that can occur, apparently, under specific parameters - the details of which have either been lost to time, or scribed on parchments located. within ancient pureblood vaults or libraries that by virtue of her birth she could never be privy to.

That she has not participated, or _chosen_ , or even bloody well _consented i_ s apparently of no consequence.

What truly sends her reeling, breath rushing from her lungs and bile creeping up her throat is all the more horrifying for its _familiarity,_ for Hermione now bears not just a representation of any snake, but the very emblem of _Slytherin_ inked into her skin. _And that can only mean-_

Hermione glances down at the locket suspended between her breasts.

Its relentless, whispering malice is curiously silent.

With mounting dread she lifts it, holding the chain draped across her fingers as she examines its now dull, darkened surface, its eerie luminescence dimmed. She doesn't understand how it is possible, but the fragment of soul is _gone_.

Tentatively, she reaches down, touches the tattoo, and nearly sinks to her knees at the force of the connection.

It is _him_.

Oh, God.

There is a split second where it feels like she is someplace _other_ , someplace well appointed, and she can feel the soft, thick pile of carpet between her toes and -

And...he sees her. For the love of all that is holy, He _sees_ her.

A sob bursts from her as a rapidly surging swell of adrenaline and pure, naked terror floods her system. She jerks her hand away as if scalded and shouts, hoarse and frantic, "Harry!... _Harry!_ "

In an instant a barefoot, disheveled Harry skids into her section of tent. "Hermione! what's going -" he trails off as his eyes shift to her torso, then widen in confusion. "Hermione, what...is... _what is that?-"_

"I don't have time to explain."

"What are you -"

She cuts him off. "Harry, listen to me! He _knows_."

"What? _Who knows_?"

If their actual survival weren't measured in bloody _seconds_ , she would roll her eyes in exasperation." _Shut up!_ There's no time!" she screams, fighting to contain her spiraling panic, " _He's_ coming!" Without realizing it, she gestures toward the locket, and his jaw drops in surprise.

Uttering a string of curses, Harry launches himself into action, grabbing his pack and holding it open in front of him. She whips her wand decisively through the air. In seconds, items are whizzing at breakneck speed through the tent, shrinking into miniature as they fly into the pack. She manages to pack the bulk of what he will need to survive in record time, but first-

"Harry, you need to look at this."

Shock ripples across his face as he registers the appearance of the locket.

"The horcrux. It's gone. They may _all_ be gone. Do you understand what that means?"

His attention snaps back to her and he nods, his face troubled.

"You can kill him now. But you _have_ to go!" She grabs his hand, smacks her wand against his palm. " _Now!_ "

For a second Harry shakes his head, his expression anguished, but then he crushes her to him in an embrace. All too soon, though, he is stepping away from her. His face is wet. With a loud, reverberating crack he vanishes.

It isn't until much later that she realizes that she avoided speaking Voldemort's name even though by that point it didn't matter.

A scant minute later the air grows thick with magic, angry, suffocating and _his_ , and her carefully constructed wards simply disintegrate under the onslaught. Her cheeks redden as her body unwittingly responds to it, threatening the already tenuous thread of her composure. God, his magic is like an entity unto itself. The serpent glides sinuously across her ribs in anticipation, it's tiny, forked tongue darting out to tickle her.

This is grotesque, she reminds herself. He is grotesque, he is a monster- sadistic, white faced and inhuman, and Hermione briefly wonders what she could possibly have done in this life, or in some previous unremembered existence, to have warranted such a fate.

A spinning, silent column of smoke heralds the arrival of the Dark Lord. She stands, tensely awaiting the contingent of Death Eaters that are sure to follow. She is a bit surprised, then, when it becomes clear that he is alone. She observes him as he quickly moves forward in long, almost loping strides, his wand twisting in sharp, precise movements.

The hood of his robe completely obscures his face. Watching him move, she blanches as the thought crosses her mind that there is something elegant, predatory, almost beautiful about the way he is storming through the wreckage of the campsite. When she hears him growl in frustration she allows her lips to quirk up into a tiny smile.

-oOo-

Once again his prey has managed to evade him. _Fuck_.

This is really just not his day.

Dark, violent impulses surge through him, and it is a struggle to restrain the desire to unleash a hail of fire and destruction. Some unfortunate soul will definitely find themselves at the business end of his wand later, because it's not as if he can torture _her_.

Sourly, he regards the girl. She is a mess. Dirty, her hair frazzled and unkempt, and so painfully thin it's a wonder she hasn't collapsed from malnourishment. But despite her palpable fear, her large brown eyes are blazing with keen intelligence and more than a hint of defiance.

Fascinating, given that she also appears to be unarmed.

Yes. This is indeed the girl who has kept Potter alive and one step ahead of him with literally nothing but ruthless, single minded resourcefulness and apparently boundless magical creativity. The irony that his followers - and to some degree, even he himself - have underestimated her abilities simply because of her birth is not lost on him. She is the unknown quantity, the wild card, sharp as a knife and more than happy to cut him at the first available opportunity - whatever the cost.

Extending his hand he grasps the locket, ignoring how her whole body visibly flinches. He smirks, then chuckles as her head tilts down, eyes growing large as she notices the skin of his hands. "You don't miss much, do you?" he murmurs, just before he yanks the chain free and pockets the jewelry.

If possible, her eyes widen further as he then reaches up and pulls back his hood. He pauses, using the impact of his drastically altered appearance to full effect. "It would seem, Miss Granger, that we find ourselves in a rather difficult predicament."

"Indeed," she answers, her posture rigid, straight, her voice barely quavering. Clearly, she is a lion through and through, and that she has not shattered into tearful, useless fragments like a porcelain teacup at his mere presence bodes well.

She will not yield or make this easy for him, and he finds himself unaccountably excited at the prospect. It will require every ounce of sly cunning and wit to bring her down, to ensnare her so that ultimately, she dives willingly into the murky pool of darkness and corruption.

Well, he thinks with slowly burgeoning anticipation, perhaps the Universe and the Fates know what they are doing after all.

"Shall we?"

Her eyes are locked on his outstretched hand, her expression tight and anxious, then she carefully lays her palm atop his.

It's like a bomb going off.

-oOo-

 _Now, tell me what you saw_

 _tell me what you saw_

They are frozen, each of them, and she watches as his magnificent, sculpted face ripples in shock in much the same way as her own must be at that moment, as their souls and their beings _connect_ , their magics practically singing out in union.

It sweeps over them, raw, potent, and almost painfully, unbearably intimate.

It is not an introduction.

It is not the shy, half aroused awkwardness of standing naked for the first time before a new lover, nor is it the slow, gradual acquisition of knowledge gained through familiarity. It slams into them with the merciless force of a sledgehammer, everything, all at once.

And in that instant, she _knows_ him, knows the vast breadth of his cruelty, his malice, the empty void that exists in place of anything remotely resembling empathy or compassion, as well as the secret, pervasive _fear_ woven throughout his psyche like the threads of a tapestry. She sees his formative years spent utterly deprived of even the most basic, minimal nurturing or care, the years spent cultivating a following, a persona, a _destiny_ , fueled solely by the sheer, unmatched power of his will and his magic.

She also sees his brilliance, his curiosity, his unrelenting drive to push, to expand the very boundaries of magic - even if it means plunging himself into the very depths of Hell, and most of all, she sees that he retains an almost childlike wonder and appreciation of the beauty of magic, undimmed by either time or insanity.

And it shocks her to her core, because he is, in a surprising number of ways, _just like her_.

In the barest fraction of a second he bears witness to her history. He sees a child who is misunderstood, socially awkward, isolated not only by her prodigious intellect but by strange, incomprehensible occurrences that have not yet been given name ( _magic)_.

He sees that she finds comfort and meaning in structure to an almost absurd degree, that her deep seated fear of failing - of _not being prepared_ \- sometimes sends her careening into a level of rigidly obsessive, perfectionist behavior that would be risible if he hadn't engaged in it himself at various points in his life.

If it hadn't kept her alive and out of his clutches.

There are parallels to be found in their origins. Unlike him, however, she does not attempt to harness her singularity as a means of carving out an advantage or gaining mastery. She is ruthless, certainly, and vengeful - qualities he could exploit, were they not tempered by her boundless caring and her abiding regard for all living things.

And underneath her bookishness, and the cloud of unmanageable hair, and her utter disinterest in vanity she is...well, she is really quite lovely.

He notices that she is looking at him with eyes that are no longer wide with fear, but curious, openly appraising.

And he realizes then that he is, in all probability, completely fucked.

* * *

 **A/N: So here's the deal. For the time being this will have to stand as sort of a one shot, primarily because I have a lot of real life stuff going on right now that impedes my ability to figure out where I would go with this. Yeah, I purposefully left it open enough to continue, but I've neglected my other projects for too long. So there is that.**

 **Anyway, if you enjoyed this, please let me know!**

 **Song Lyrics: _Gold Lion_ , by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs**


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